Like our last working Saturday
that we renamed Sapphic Saturday, as in

Night Fever too. Squircle is an
actual word. It’s a kooky hybrid between

a square and a circle. Like the
psychedelic prints on Mom’s 1950s hair salon

turned house apron. Like her
glow-in-the-dark placemats. Like trusty goggle

boxes before they became home
theatrette widescreens.

Squircle Line Press is a boutique
press, which is a big name for liking pretty

things. Pretty, gritty things. We
have our moods, which we adore. It makes

us edgy, and yaw effortlessly between
minimalism and hyperbole, from

having a black obsession to locating the perfect
blue in say, profondo,

brillante, and rilassante, and every other kind of blue.

We read, write and publish. Poetry
and fiction. Creative nonfiction.

Memoirs. Even children’s books. And to keep
our professional cutting edge,

a variety of corporate literature because we
believe in simple, honest, good

business sense. That text is text. That you pays your money and takes your

choice. Even then, we're ultimately about the writing. That, as Anne Lamott put it: “Publication is not all that it is cracked up to be. But writing is. It’s like discovering that while you thought you needed the tea ceremony for the caffeine, what you really needed was the tea ceremony. The act of writing turns out to be its own reward.”

We love every kind of narrative conscious of its craft. We love everything crisp. Like a caesura. We love everything figural –
the leitmotif. We love everything of a literary weltanschauung.